A SMILING WORLD.
Things were going well now with Florence Aylmer. She was earning money,
and it was unnecessary for her to live any longer in the top attic of
Prince's Mansions. She had got over her first discomfort; her conscience
no longer pricked her; she took an interest in the situation, and
sometimes laughed softly to herself. She knew that she was losing a good
deal: that the worth and stability of her character were being slowly
undermined. But she was winning success: the world was smiling at her
just because she was successful, and she resolved to go on now, defying
fate.
She wrote often to her mother and to Kitty Sharston, and told both her
mother and Kitty of her successes. She never wrote to Bertha except
about business. Bertha as a rule, enclosed directed envelopes to
herself, so that Florence's writing should not be seen by Mrs. Aylmer or
Trevor or any guests who might be staying in the house. Bertha was very
wise in her generation, and when she did a wrong thing she knew at least
how to do that wrong thing cleverly.
Florence was now quite friendly with Edith Franks. Edith took an
interest in her; she still believed that there was something behind the
scenes--something which she could not quite fathom--but at the same
time she fully and with an undivided heart believed in Florence's great
genius, as did also her brother Tom.
By Edith's advice Florence secured the room next to hers, and the girls
were now constantly together. Tom often dropped in during the evenings,
and took them many times to the play.
Florence began to own that life could be enjoyable even with a heavy
conscience and tarnished honour. She was shocked with herself for
feeling so. She knew that she had fallen a good many steps lower than
she had fallen long ago when she was an inmate of Cherry Court School;
nevertheless, there seemed no hope or chance of going back. She had to
go forward and trust to her secret never being discovered.
Early in November, or, rather, the latter end of October, her first
story was published in the _Argonaut_. It was sufficiently striking,
terse, and original to receive immediate attention from more than one
good review. She was spoken of as a young writer of great promise, and a
well-known critic took the trouble to write a short paper on her story.
This mention gave her, as Tom assured her, a complete success. She was
quoted in several society journals, and one well-known paper asked for
her photograph. All the expectations of the _Argonaut_ were more than
realised, and some people said that Florence was the coming woman, and
that her writings would be quite as popular as those of the best-known
American fiction writers. Hers was the first short story of any promise
which had appeared in the English magazines for some time. The next
from her pen was eagerly awaited, and it was decided that it was to be
published in the December number.
Bertha, having provided Florence with the story, she carefully re-wrote
it in her own hand, and it was sent to the editor. It was a better story
than the first, but more critical. There was a cruel note about it. It
was harrowing. It seemed to go right down into the heart, and to pierce
it with a note of pain. It was a wonderful story for a girl of
Florence's age to have written. The editor was charmed.
"I don't like the tone of the story," he said to Franks; "I don't think
that I should particularly care to have its author for my wife or
daughter, but its genius is undoubted. That girl will make a very big
mark. We have been looking for someone like her for a long time. We have
had no big stars in our horizon. She may do anything if she goes on as
well as she has begun."
"And yet she does not look specially clever," said Franks, in a
contemplative voice. "Her speech is nothing at all remarkable; in fact,
in conversation I think her rather dull than otherwise."
"I was taken with her face on the whole," said the editor; "it was
strong, I think, and, with all our knowledge, we can never tell what is
inside a brain. She at least has a remarkable one, Franks. We must make
much of her: I don't want her to be snapped up by other editors. We must
raise her terms. I will give her three guineas a thousand words for this
new story."
Franks called upon his sister and Florence Aylmer on the evening of the
day when the editor of the _Argonaut_ made this remark: he found them
both in his sister's comfortable room. Florence was reclining on the
sofa, and Edith was busily engaged over some of her biological
specimens.
"Oh, dear!" said Franks, as he entered the room; "why do you bring those
horrors home, Edith?"
"They are all right; I keep them in spirit," she replied. "Don't
interrupt me; go and talk to Florence: she is in a bad humour this
evening."
"In a bad humour, are you?" said Franks. He drew a chair up, and sat at
the foot of Florence's sofa.
She was nicely dressed, her hair was fashionably arranged, she had lost
that look of hunger which had made her face almost painful to see, and
she received Franks with a coolness which was new-born within her.
"I don't know why you should be depressed," he said; "anyhow, I hope to
have the great pleasure of driving the evil spirits away. I have come
with good news."
"Indeed!" answered Florence.
"Yes; my editor, Mr. Anderson, is so pleased with your second story,
'The Judas Tree,' that he is going to raise his terms. You are to
receive three guineas a thousand words for your manuscript. It is, I
think, exactly six thousand words in length. He has asked me to hand you
a cheque to-night. Will you accept it?"
As Franks spoke, he took out his pocket-book and handed Florence a
cheque for eighteen guineas.
"You will be a rich girl before long," he said.
"It seems like it," she answered. She glanced at the cheque without any
additional colour coming to her face, and laid it quietly on a little
table by her side.
"And now, Miss Aylmer, there is something I specially want you to do
for me. I hope you will not refuse it."
"I will certainly do what I can," she answered.
"It is this. The _Argonaut_ is, of course, our monthly magazine. It
holds the very first position amongst the six-pennies, and has, as you
doubtless know, an enormous circulation. You will very soon be the
fashion. We are about to issue a weekly paper, a sort of review. We
trust it will eclipse even the _Spectator_ and the _Saturday_, and we
want a paper from your pen. We want it to be on a special subject--a
subject which is likely to cause attention. Can you and will you do it?
Anderson begged of me to put the question to you, and I do so also on my
own account."
"But what subject do you want me to write upon?" said Florence, feeling
sick and faint, and yet not knowing at first how to reply.
"The subject is to be about women as they are. They are coming to the
front, and I want you to talk about them just as you please. You may be
satirical or not, as it strikes your fancy. I want you in especial to
attack them with regard to the aesthetic craze which is so much in
fashion now. If you like to show them that they look absolutely foolish
in their greenery-yallery gowns, and their hair done up in a wisp, and
all the rest of the thing, why, do so; then you can throw in a note
about a girl like my sister."
"Oh, come!" exclaimed Edith, from her distant table, "that would be
horribly unfair."
"Anyhow, I want you to write about woman in her improved aspects; that
is the main thing," said Franks. "Will you do it or will you not?"
Florence thought for a wild moment. It would be impossible for Bertha to
help her with this paper. She could not get information or
subject-matter in time. Dare she do it?
"I would rather not," she said.
Franks face fell.
"That is scarcely kind," he said; "you simply must do it."
"You will not refuse Tom," said Edith, who had apparently not been
listening, but who now jumped up and came forward. "What is it, Tom?
What do you want Florence to do?"
Tom briefly explained matters.
"It is for our new venture," he said. "Miss Aylmer is scarcely the
fashion yet, but she soon will be. It is to be a signed article--'Woman
in Her Many Crazes' can be the title. No one can know more on the matter
than she does."
"Oh, I'll prime you up with facts, if that is all," said Edith; "you
must do it: it would be most ungenerous and unkind to refuse Tom after
the way he has brought you to the front."
"But I must refuse," said Florence. She rose from the sofa; her face
looked pale with desperation.
"That horrid secret, whatever it is, is beginning to awake once more,"
thought the astute Edith to herself. She looked at Florence with what
Tom called her scientific face.
"Sit down," she said, "sit down. Why should you not do it?"
"Because I am no good at all with that class of paper."
"But your style will be invaluable, and you need not say much," said
Franks. "We want just the same simple terse, purely Saxon style. We want
one or two of your ideas. You need not make it three thousand words
long: it does not really matter. You will be well paid. I have the
editor's permission to offer you twelve guineas. Surely you will not
refuse such a valuable cheque."
Florence looked with almost vacant eyes at the cheque which was lying on
the table near her. The whole thing seemed like black magic.
"I suppose I must try," she said; "I have never written any prose worth
reading in my life. You will be dreadfully disappointed; I know you
will."
"I am quite certain we shall not be disappointed; anyhow, I am going to
risk it. You must not go back on your promise. Write your paper
to-morrow morning when you are fresh; then post it to me in the evening.
Good-bye. I am awfully obliged to you."
The young journalist took his departure before Florence had time to
realise what she had done. She heard his steps descending the stairs,
and then turned with lack-leisure eyes to Edith.
"What have I done?" she cried.
"Done?" said Edith, in a tone of some impatience. "Why, your duty, of
course. You could not refuse Tom after all his kindness to you. Where
would you be but for him--but for me? Do you suppose that, just because
you are clever, you would have reached the position you have done if it
had not been for my brother? You must do your very best for him."
"Oh, don't scold me, please, Edith," said poor Florence.
"I don't mean to; but really your queer ways of accepting Tom's favours
exasperate me now and then."
"Perhaps I had better go to my own room," said Florence. "I am in your
way, am I not?"
"When you talk nonsense you are. When you are sensible I delight to have
you here. Lie down on the sofa once more, and go on reading this last
novel of George Eliot's: it will put some grit into you."
Edith returned once more to her task, lit a strong lamp which she had
got for this special purpose, put on her magnifying-glasses, adjusted
her microscope, and set to work.
Florence knew that she was lost to all externals for the next hour or
so. She herself took up her book and tried to read. Half an hour before
this book had interested her, now she found it dry as sawdust; she could
not follow the argument nor interest herself in the tale. She let it
drop on her lap, and stared straight before her. How was she to do that
which she said she would do? Her crutch was no longer available. The
ghost who really supplied all her brilliant words and felicitous turns
of speech and quaint ideas was not to be secured on any terms
whatsoever. What could she do?
She felt restless and uncomfortable.
"I did wrong ever to consent to it, but now that I have begun I must go
on taking in the golden sovereigns," she said to herself, and she took
up the cheque for eighteen guineas, looked at it eagerly, and put it
into her purse. Starvation was indeed now far removed. Florence could
help her mother and support herself; but, nevertheless, although she was
now well fed and well clothed and comfortably housed, she at that
moment had the strongest regret of all her life for the old hungry days
when she had been an honest, good girl, repentant of the folly of her
youth, and able with a clear conscience to look all men in the face.
"But as I have begun I must go on," she said to herself. "To court
discovery now would be madness. I cannot, I will not court it. Come what
may, I must write that article. How am I to do it, and in twenty-four
hours? Oh, if I could only telegraph to Bertha!"